When We Meet Again

by Caroline Beecham

She could barely speak, the tears were falling so fast, but she finally managed to say, “My aunt, she can tell you what happened—”

  “Look, luv, my advice to you is to go home and stop wasting police time. I told you, we’ve more than enough to deal with without loonies.”

  He lifted the wooden hatch and came around to her side of the counter, standing too close with his arms folded across his chest.

  “Off you go, then,” he said sharply.

  Alice backed away, silenced by her disbelief, and stumbled through the doors and out into the bitter morning air.

  * * *

  Ruth’s wet umbrella stood in the corner of the porch, raindrops spilling down the dark fabric, water pooling at its base. Alice’s breath rasped as she closed her eyes and turned the key, pushing the front door wide open while she listened for the cry of a newborn.

  She’d left the police station and hurried west past the incongruous turrets and domes of the Royal Pavilion, barely silhouettes in the burgeoning daylight. Alice’s legs had been weak and trembling, her mind still reeling from her ordeal at the police station, so she’d hailed a passing taxi to take her to Brighton station where she’d stopped to look back down over the rooftops at the skyline she was leaving behind. From this station, there were trains bound for London, as well as other destinations to which her mother could easily have traveled—north to the Midlands or even Scotland, or the West Country. So many infants and children had been evacuated, no one would notice one more baby without its mother. Where are you, and why have you taken Eadie? Why did you come up with our plan, go along with it for months, and then take her now? It doesn’t make sense.

  It had taken all her strength to force herself through the station entrance. Platforms and trains had been visible through the large archways, the immense glass-and-iron roof cantilevered overhead. Vehicles had been making deliveries and collections from the forecourt, milk pails rolled down the concourse onto a waiting train, and her eyes had darted everywhere, searching for her mother and her newborn.

  Thankfully the ticket office and café had already been open, a window sign announcing, open as usual, mr. hitler. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, and she had realized she was hungry. It was then that her mind had gone blank, unable to remember exactly where she needed to go—Victoria station, or Clapham Junction and a change for Dulwich? She had hidden her distress as she bought a ticket and some breakfast, and then saw to her padding again before boarding what she’d decided was the right train. As it had pulled out of the station she had watched, with bittersweet emotion, the shadows of terraces and open green squares recede; she had been sorry to be leaving Eadie’s birthplace, yet hopeful that she was traveling closer to her.

  Now in Dulwich, outwardly she felt calm, strangely disconnected, as she stepped through the doorway and hurriedly explored the downstairs rooms. She used the handrail to help her climb the stairs, already sensing the search was pointless. The rapid thud of her heartbeat echoed a mounting panic that she wasn’t going to find Eadie here.

  Alice’s bedroom was empty, and when she rushed into her mother’s room she found immaculately made beds and an icy coldness. Even before she opened the door to her brother’s old room, now Eadie’s nursery in her mind, at least, she knew what she would find: empty cupboards where she’d stored baby clothes.

  She buried her head in her hands as frustration, anger and fear rose up inside her, but she couldn’t cry.

  Where would Ruth go with Eadie? All Saints in West Dulwich was the most likely answer: the church she’d attended, rarely missing a service, since their move. It was only a ten-minute walk through Dulwich Village, but Alice didn’t have the strength. All she could do was wait for her mother to return.

  Her thoughts had taken her on a disturbing journey as she’d imagined all the places Ruth might be and what she might have done with Eadie, but Alice kept coming back to the same notion: in spite of Ruth’s disapproval and deteriorating mind, surely her religious faith would stop her doing anything too bad. She’d been an active church member even through the Blitz, attending services in a blacked-out crypt. It had always made Alice smile to think of the non-worshipping locals’ displeasure at sharing their air-raid shelter with a full choir and congregation, but today all she could think about was how her mother had such kindness for strangers but had shown such cruelty to her.

  Then she remembered the dressing table where Ruth kept their important documents and hurried back to her mother’s room. The drawer was locked, but the key wasn’t hard to find. She soon pried it open and tipped the contents out: a few pieces of jewelry and a ten-pound note. The birth and marriage certificates were gone.

  Alice sank down on the edge of the bed as her breasts released another sharp wave of heat and pain. She was clutching Eadie’s blanket, staring at the empty drawer, when the framed family photographs distracted her. Except for the photo of her father in his zookeeper uniform, all the pictures morphed into people she barely recognized; once important family occasions took on a somber meaning.

  Alice stared at the image of her and her mother on her twelfth birthday—a party at the zoo—their faces pressed together as they beamed at the camera. They had been close before grief had distorted Ruth’s emotions and religion had made a fossil of her heart. After learning of her pregnancy Alice had managed her heartbreak and humiliation, quarantining her feelings of shame and disgrace for the more important ideal and role of motherhood. Was it too much to ask for her mother to do the same?

  Finally there was the sound she’d been waiting for: a door opening and footsteps in the hallway below. The light outside had faded, and Alice rose quickly and hurried downstairs, glancing into the empty living room as she walked past.

  A loud male voice echoed from the kitchen, making her hesitate before she threw open the door. Ruth turned abruptly, and Alice realized the voice was coming from the wireless.

  “Where is she? Where’s Eadie?”

  Ruth was at the sink and froze as her daughter advanced on her. “I’m sorry, Alice . . . I can’t tell you.”

  “Why? What have you done with her?”

  “You won’t make me change my mind.” Ruth glanced at the blanket then back at Alice, her lips tightening.

  “How could you?” Alice shouted, moving closer, eyes wide with fury. “Where is she?”

  Ruth backed away, gripping hold of the countertop behind her with both hands. “I can’t tell you. It’s best for everyone. Are you all right? Did the nurse take care of you?”

  “You lied to me. You were supposed to help me . . . help us.” Alice clutched the blanket to her chest.

  “You shouldn’t have come, Alice, you really shouldn’t have. You should still be in bed.” Ruth snapped off the wireless broadcaster mid-sentence. “I’m helping you. Can’t you see that? This way you’ll have the chance of a future—”

  “A future . . . without my baby.”

  “But you can have a husband now—a husband and a family you can call your own,” Ruth said, stretching out a hand.

  “Don’t touch me!” Alice screamed, backing away. “I don’t care about that. I don’t want another family.”

  “Maybe not now, but you will.”

  A tremor of pain passed through Alice’s abdomen, and she put out a hand to steady herself. She was too weak to maintain her anger and needed to try something else; it was only Ruth who stood between her and Eadie. “Mum, it’s me, Alice,” she pleaded, looking into her eyes, searching for the woman who had nurtured and raised her, the woman who was supposed to know what it meant to be maternal.

  “I know you can’t see it now, Alice, but one day . . . one day you will thank me.” Ruth seemed so calm, so composed, and then it dawned on Alice: her mother actually believed what she said, that she was helping her.

  Alice stepped forward, inches from her mother’s face. “I don’t care about the future. All I
care about is Eadie. Now, where is she?”

  “This really is best for both of you.”

  It seemed hopeless; her mother was unreachable, and Alice slumped back, propping herself up with one hand on the table as the tears began to fall. “How could you possibly know what’s best for us? It might be best for you, but it’s not best for me, and it’s certainly not best for Eadie.”

  “It might not seem that way now, but I sought guidance and the Lord answered.”

  “You have to tell me where she is,” Alice pleaded.

  “Hebrews, Alice. ‘Marriage is honorable in all, and the bed undefiled: but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge.’ ”

  Alice could feel hysteria overtaking her, and she took a deep breath as she tried to stop shaking. She’d once been grateful for her mother’s faith, as it had helped Ruth grieve when her father died, but this was beyond pious; it was irrational.

  “Haven’t I always taken care of you? Aren’t I doing that right now? Just let me take care of things—”

  “For God’s sake, who’s feeding her? You have to tell me where she is, or I’ll go to the police and tell them what you’ve done.”

  “No, you won’t, or you would have already done it.” Ruth stood stiffly while Alice was cowed and trembling, her body failing her, and she tried to summon more strength.

  She leaned closer to Ruth. “Yes, I will,” she said slowly, enunciating each word.

  “And what do you think they’ll do? There are thousands of missing children, and the police certainly won’t care about the illegitimate ones.”

  Something inside Alice snapped. She had never so much as raised a hand to her mother before, but now she grabbed her by her wrists, fingernails digging into her skin. “Tell me where she is!” she screamed into her face. “Tell me!”

  “Get off. You’re hurting me!”

  Ruth tried to break free, but it only made Alice tighten her grip and dig her fingernails in more. “You can’t do this, you’re my mother. How could you?”

  “You brought this upon yourself. I am saving you, Alice.” Ruth was still struggling. “You will thank me for it in the end.”

  “No, I won’t. Now tell me where she is.”

  “I will not.”

  Alice released her grip, body weakening, barely able to stand. She locked eyes with her mother, their familiar gray flecks now stony and cold, and Alice fought the urge to strike her, knowing it would only make her feel better for an instant. “Why are you doing this to me?” she said, leaning into the table again. “Just tell me why.”

  Ruth swallowed and looked at the floor before gazing back at Alice. “The day your father died, I promised myself I would always protect you, I would always put you first . . . and that’s exactly what I’m doing now.”

  “But don’t you think I know what’s best for me?”

  “You aren’t thinking clearly, Alice.” Ruth’s expression hardened.

  “Whose idea was it . . . Father Mitchell’s? Did he put you up to this?”

  Ruth cast her eyes down as her fingers played with the tea towel in her hands. “It’s got nothing to do with him.”

  “I bet it’s got everything to do with him.”

  “You know that God will make his own judgment. It’s not ours to make.”

  As repugnant as she found it, Alice believed her mother might be telling the truth. She glanced around, realizing how the kitchen had become even colder and how the smell of her mother’s cooking was repellent where once it had been comforting.

  Alice gathered her thoughts. “I’ll leave here, no one will know. You can come and visit us if you want to. The shame will only be mine.”

  It looked as though Ruth might be relenting, her eyes becoming glassy. “I never wanted to hurt you, Alice. I know what you’ve been through.”

  “Then don’t do this,” she pleaded. “It doesn’t matter what anyone else says or thinks. I’ll take Eadie far away. No one will ever know.”

  “How? Where would you go . . . how would you manage?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’ll find a way,” Alice said, beginning to sob again, tears streaming down her face. “She needs me . . .”

  Ruth remained mute, and they stood in silence, listening as a train rumbled along its tracks in the distance and birdsong sounded from the garden. The longer their silence stretched, the more Alice hoped her mother would change her mind.

  Then she noticed the table was set for two. “Who are you expecting?”

  “This is your home, Alice. There will always be a place for you here.”

  It was unfathomable that her mother could believe she would want to be in the same room as her, let alone at the same table, and Alice shook her head in disbelief.

  “You might not understand now, Alice, but you will, in time.”

  Alice’s gaze fell to a stain on the linoleum, and she felt herself go limp. All she could think of was how Eadie had felt the last time she’d held her: her warmth, the scent of her crown, her weightlessness. And of how quickly their fragile bond would be broken.

  “Just tell me she’s all right. If you’re not going to tell me where she is, at least tell me who she’s with.”

  Ruth glanced up at the ceiling and clenched her jaw, the muscles in her neck tightening. “There are people who are experienced at this, Alice. People who do this all the time and know how to take care of things.”

  Alice stopped crying and held her breath.

  “Eadie has a wet nurse. That’s all I can say.”

  Alice gave her an icy stare, unable to speak.

  “There won’t be so many choices once this war is over. It will take all our young men. You should know; war took your brother—”

  Something in Alice cracked at the way Ruth was using William to justify herself. “What makes you think I would want a husband more than my own child?”

  Ruth folded her hands in front of her. “It’s too late,” she said matter-of-factly. “I don’t know where the baby is.”

  “You must have a number, an address—”

  “No, nothing.”

  “But how did you contact them?” she asked as a numbness crept through her.

  “It was an advert in the newspaper. They had a postal box number—they wrote back to me and arranged the place and time. Then I met them at a hotel in the city.”

  “What newspaper? Who are they?”

  “It was the Daily Mail, and I told you, I don’t know who they are. Just a couple who look after babies and find them good homes. They thought it was best if I didn’t know too much, and I agreed. I only saw them twice before . . . before they took her.”

  The bile Alice had been fighting back finally rose in her throat, and she tried to swallow. This was far worse than she could ever have imagined.

  “What kind of woman gives her grandchild to strangers?” she spat.

  Ruth pressed her lips together. “There are couples who can’t have babies, who are grateful of the chance to raise a child together. Married couples.”

  Alice was moments away from vomiting, but she had to concentrate: perhaps Ruth was on the verge of giving away important information. Then something occurred to her. “Did they come with you, when you stole her?”

  “No, they were supposed to,” Ruth said, sounding more uncertain. “They wanted to take the baby as soon as they could.”

  “You mean as soon as I gave birth.”

  There were tears in Ruth’s eyes, and she raised a hand as if she wanted to offer comfort. “I am sorry for that, Alice. It would have been better for everyone if they had taken her straightaway, but you went into labor early. You wouldn’t have formed such an attachment—”

  “Do I know them?” Her voice came out as a whisper.

  “No, they only visited Brighton once,” Ruth said earnestly, as though she had been doing A
lice a service. “They wanted to be certain.”

  Alice recoiled, rushing over to the sink and reaching it just in time.

  Eleven

  London, March 19, 1943

  “You’ll have to sit and wait,” the old officer behind the desk said gruffly. “There’s no telling how long it could take.”

  “I understand,” said Alice. “I’ll be right here.” She sat gently on the closest bench, feeling uncomfortably hot, with cramps in her abdomen.

  She had been heading to her old friend Penny’s house when she’d had a change of heart and decided she had to try the police again, so she’d stopped off at Marylebone Lane Police Station on the way. In light of what her mother had said, she couldn’t afford to wait or to worry about revealing Rupert’s identity. And she’d realized that she didn’t need to; she would simply claim she didn’t know who the father was.

  Around her were benches packed with members of the public in varying states of disgruntlement, victims of London’s crime epidemic. The newspapers were filled with stories of how the city was rife with lootings, murders and gang activities, which added to the wartime atmosphere of fear and uncertainty. The police would see Alice as one of many victims, but she was determined not to put up with the same treatment as before. It’s the best thing for you to go home and get some sleep, indeed! This time they had to believe her.

  Half an hour passed before a middle-aged officer, his uniform too small and his thinning salt-and-pepper hair too long, showed her into a small interview room. Under different circumstances she would have been disturbed to be enclosed in the white-tiled room, with its dreary concrete floors and barred window, but as she sat on the opposite side of the desk Alice wheeled between impatience and relief.

  In the waiting room the officer had introduced himself as Special Constable Bobby Relf, and she’d given him her name, but now he didn’t remember. “Is it Miss or Mrs. Cotton?” he asked, pencil balanced between his fingers.

  “Miss.”

  “And can you tell me why you’re here, Miss Cotton?”